Night Air and Mary Jane

Strange.

I haven't laid down in bed with the window open in a long time. I couldn't at Dad's, they were sealed shut upstairs. And up here in Washington, I just haven't thought about it. But I had to open the window last night; I hadn't slept well for the past three days. And it was such deliciousness to sleep with the window open, let the cool air in, hear the wind, and pretend there was no danger in leaving it open. And I slept so, so well.

But right now, in the late evening, my day winding down to its last minutes before turning out the light, I was listening to the sounds of the evening outside, the cars driving by on the busy road near this house and what I was reminded of surprised me.

I felt like I was back in Provo. Alone in my room, homework done, about to go to work...except that's wrong. That strange alone feeling I had while going to college, not a bad feeling, but a sort of separation and being away from family, making friends only on occasion. And yet everyday held the possibility of some great change, some great opportunity, small delights, a million things. I was alone but not alone. And the smells and sounds of night living in a town are so full and so empty, which is how I nearly always feel. A contradiction. It's both joy and sadness, excitement and stillness. Always present.

I wanted to write this down for some reason. There's no one to talk to here. Not that I've ever really been a talker. It reminds me of how Nikki and I lay down on the wood floor in her living room in San Diego and listened to a Sigur Ros album, never really talking at all, until Nikki said other people get high so they can do this. To let go and be somewhere else in their minds and everything's okay.

And it is. Everything is okay.